Diaries of RAB
by Born-Clueless
Summary: I write in this diary as an explanation. Here lies the details of my life as I am approaching death. It is an explanation of who I am and what I have done. It is the story of my worst flaw, my greatest love, my gravest mistake and ultimately, my change of heart. These are the diaries of Regulus Arcturus Black.
1. Introduction

Before I begin, I must warn you that what you are about to read may be hard to swallow.

It is my life in its rawest form. I don't intend for it to be pretty or to be particularly self-deprecating. It is the truth; my truth.

It is a dying man's wish to explain his life as he sees it.

Now others may have their opinions of me, many of which will be told to you throughout your life.

Just know that this is the closest to the truth you will find of me.

I apologize for my lack of detail, but I seem to be under a time constraint.

I write in this diary as an explanation. Here lies the details of my life as I am approaching death. It is an explanation of who I am and what I have done. It is the story of my worst flaw, my greatest love, my gravest mistake and ultimately, my change of heart.

These are the diaries of Regulus Arcturus Black.


	2. Entry One: At age four

**Entry One: At age four**

This is as far back of a memory that I can clearly remember. It is rather sad to think of now, that this is my earliest of memories, but I suppose this is a better place to start than anywhere.

I now assume that this moment was when my cowardice had begun. I also realize that perhaps it had always been there, rooted deep inside of me since the moment of my conception.

I do not know for certain which I would prefer.

I remember the comfort I received from the darkness the blanket created. I huddled under it like a shield, as if the thin layer of fabric protected me from the entire world. The shouting and smashing frightened me. My instinct was to run and hide. At the age of five I suppose a blanket was the safest place for any child of that age. With my hands clenched in tight fists, my eyes tightly shut and my head tucked down into my chest, I allowed the tears to flow freely.

Sirius was arguing with Mother and Father. Or rather, he was being disciplined by them. The boy of seven had already developed a very different personality than that of my parents or the rest of my family for that matter. He did not behave exactly in the way that was expected of him.

While he was as proud, hotheaded and fiercely protective as any Black, he had always been loud, silly and mischievous. He made jokes and poked fun at others. He never followed rules or maintained a proper exterior.

My parents hated it. They called him an embarrassment. He was the perfect example of what a Black _wasn't_ supposed to be.

 _Toujours Pur_ are the words of the Noble House of Black. It means Always Pure, but has a much deeper meaning than its simple translation. To be a Black meant that you were superior. Black was an ancient pureblood family that rarely deviated from its roots. When there was deviation however, there were dire consequences.

As a child that had the honour of holding the surname Black, you were taught how to behave, how to carry yourself and how to uphold the nobility of the name. From young we received manners coaching, etiquette training and we were taught how to speak properly. We dressed nicely, were always groomed well and never spoke out of turn.

Sirius had none of these qualities and had no interest in learning them either.

Perhaps that isn't all true, Sirius always placed a great importance on his hair.

In all seriousness, the most important value of a Black, was that anything that wasn't purebred or a supporter of purebloods, was unworthy, dirty and inferior.

We were not allowed to associate with any of said people, never mind support them in their lifestyles.

We were the ultimate beings and everyone else solely existed for the purpose of serving us. This included muggles, mudbloods, goblins, house elves and the like.

These expectations, however tiresome they might have been, always came naturally to me. If it was expected of me then I would simply have to follow. I never questioned it, it was simply the order of things, it was what was right.

My older brother did not seem to agree.

He found lessons rather boring and he did not care about propriety. While it was simple enough for me to act as I was told, Sirius deviated, and as I have said before, deviation came with severe consequences.

This memory was only the first I could remember of Sirius' punishments. It was definitely not the first that took place and was not the last either.

Each time they only grew more and more harsh.

I was never present for them, mainly because I was too afraid to witness how bad they were and too weak to stand my brother's pain. But based on the noises I heard, even underneath my blanket shield, they were worse than any child should ever experience.

My mother's shrill screeching of profanities, continuously telling my dear brother how worthless he was was enough to send me to tears.

What was worse however, was my father. He was a man of few words who settled his disputes with violence.

Until now, it escapes my memory as to what happened in order for Sirius to be punished. It could have been a prank, that he spoke out of turn, that he gave a smile to the muggles that lived down the street or even that he showed to be influencing me in my ripe age of four. My parents could only deal with one embarrassment in the family.

Either way, it seemed like an eternity that I was hidden away under the blanket. I remember the shouting and smashing slowly subsided and all that was left to replay in my mind was the thought of _why?_

Why couldn't Sirius just act like everyone else? If he had only done or said what our parents would approve of, he wouldn't be in this situation at all.

I always blamed him. I never even tried to understand his point of view, I was too scared to even attempt to think in a way that was different than I was supposed to.

I was a coward, even from then, though I suppose at the age of four it might have been acceptable to be afraid. Or perhaps not.

Again, I am not sure which I would prefer.

There I was, huddled under my blanket, still out of breath from crying, sniffles interrupting my breaths.

There was a creak of my bedroom door.

It was Sirius. After hours of punishment, he had still thought of me as if I were the one in need of consoling. He came to coax me out of the cocoon I had made for myself. He whispered soft, soothing words to me. He apologized fiercely. He made promises to try to be better.

Neither of us knew it then, but it was only I that was needing to do so.


End file.
